My Human Disguise.
A problem with the “hard problem” —
How can this muscle mass and bone
Topped off with a refulgent shell,
Medulla and a tapered stem,
Obliterate being alone?
Thought isn’t thought in a locked cell.
Until we see eyes see, tongues talk,
Our eyes and tongues are chunks of chalk.
Rodin meant us to see an act.
His Thinker is an angel fact,
A nothing without us to see,
Though it’s hard for us to believe.
No, it’s we think, we are — we weave
Each thought from you and you and me.
